


mourning gold

by zigur



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Annatar: Not Evil Yet, Biblical References, Canon Compliant, Childhood Memories, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-04 05:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18336773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigur/pseuds/zigur
Summary: Annatar is a holy image, dressed carelessly in his sleeping robes, the spun-gold curls of his long hair forming a burning halo around him that is accentuated by the silver moonlight that peeks through the curtains.





	mourning gold

**Author's Note:**

> this is based on three things: a need to have feanor and tyelpe nerding out, isaiah's encounter with the seraph in the bible, and my seemingly uncontrollable urge to be blasphemous and make religious-themed works horny because i was raised catholic and im gay
> 
> i'll put a list at the end notes with some terms and words used, but if you can also hover for meanings

Tyelperinquar does not dream as often as he used to.

In fact, few of those who fought and survived the First Age dream at all, either by inability or choice, minds unable to process the journey of Dreams or shut completely from the world beyond the Veil. And for those like him—who chose not to cut their ties to the beyond—, rare are the occasions where their dreams are of anything but fire and grime, drowning and sorrow.

Dreaming, for one of his kind who as old as he is, is simply not worth it.

But, at least to Tyelperinquar, neither was depriving himself of the possibility of knowledge.

Drastic measures should be saved for drastic times and although he’s certain Elrond and Ereinion would disagree, Tyelperinquar has lived through enough drastic times to know his circumstances are not one of them.

So he lets his mind roam free through beyond the Veil once in a while, forsakes his sleeping droughts in favour of a night of searching his unconscious in hope of finding something other than terror and pain, other than red nightmares and mournful shaded memories.

It is not a venture in which he is often successful, but to leave something unexplored is far too unacceptable. 

So he soldiers through, enduring the pain of his past, the dread of the present and the fears of the future, searching for revelations in the heavens of his mind, of a world he cannot see in wakefulness. 

He finds that the less epiphanic and traumatising of his dreams often feature his family: Tyelkormo most often, with his lazy mischief and wide smiles, his great Hound and a shaded figure at his side. Nerdanel, too, appears to him often with her sharp gaze and high standards, and Maitimo is next, face usually twisted in exasperation and resignation as Makalaurë holds back boisterous laughter behind him. Dreams with Carnistir feature playing and reading cards whenever they come, talks of probabilities and games, of hopes and possible futures, and the twins come together as they always were, with lessons in botanics, ornithology and knowledge of the best hiding places in the house. 

Tyelperinquar does not dream of his parents.

He does not have the heart to choose between considering it a blessing or a curse.

And Fëanáro—dreams of Fëanáro are the rarest of them all.  

He has looked, though not very deeply, for a reason for such a scarcity of dreams featuring his grandfather. It is not as if there are no memories to fill his mind—Fëanáro had been a constant figure in his childhood, present from the day he was born until he was no more, involved personally in his education as most of his family had been. 

And it is not as if the memories of him are wicked or cruel; Fëanáro’s descent had, after all, been quite swift in the great scheme of things. Tyelperinquar was already ways into adulthood by the time the decades of proximity to the Enemy and the years of watching discord being planted and bearing fruit before his eyes started to take its toll on his grandfather.  

His breaking point had not been, as many believe and have written extensively about, the exile—though that time cannot be described as pleasant—, but in fact Finwë's death. It made the instability that had been blossoming for decades inside him bloom into a maelstrom of anger and hatred that, though righteous, had been far from withstandable. It was the most jarring of times, being around a maddened stranger wearing his grandfather's face, but it was also very soon followed  by his death, sparing Beleriand of the power or his burning spirit, and Tyelperinquar's image of his grandfather from being completely tainted. 

And so the fact remains that most of his memories of Fëanáro are good. Wholesome, even. They are things he's proud to remember, happy to have experienced, things that helped make him into the person he was at his brightest. 

It is one those precious moments that the veil of dreams decides to conjure for him that night. 

It is not something he has ever forgotten—he wonders if it is even possible for an Elda to _forget_ outside of as a response to trauma—, but it is something that has been buried deep inside his mind, letting its influence fester there rather than pulsate on the surface of his thoughts.

He couldn’t have been more than sixty in the dream, having reached the twilight of adolescence in a way that had been described to him as having been _much less troublesome than your atya and half of your uncles—your atto's blood in action_ by Nerdanel.

They’re on Fëanáro’s workshop in the memory, surrounded by drafts and designs, by drawings of things yet to be created, equations yet to be solved and questions yet to be answered.

Fëanáro is sitting next to him, looking nothing like the images Tyelperinquar often sees of him in paintings and sculptures done by artists in Eregion and Lindon who have never met him more than briefly in their life.

His dark hair is made of wild loosely coiled curls currently held back by a single struggling tie, and goes down to his back, a negative image of Nerdanel's short intricate braids that almost rivals Finwë's hair in impossible length. The earrings and piercings he's wearing are shades of pale gold that stand out in stark contrast against the rich brown of his skin _—_ a trait both Atarinkë and Tyelperinquar himself inherited _—_ , and the tattoos on his arms and shoulders reflect the same eerie gold as his adornments when faced with the technicolour lights of the myriad lamps around them. 

His clothes are a world away from the fancy dress he's usually envisioned in, embroidered waistcoat and loose pants singed and stained with ink and oil, shoes nowhere to be seen and outer robes thrown haphazardly into a chair that is sitting far too close to a lit forge to comfort. There are many rings on his fingers and they shine as his hands move in dramatic fashion, each of them by a different maker and varying in appearance and quality. Tyelperinquar's is one of the better-looking ones, he notes with pride, and is only rivalled by the one his father had made before him. 

There’s a half-manic grin on Fëanáro’s face as he talks, explaining the finer intricacies of natural forces and their laws to Tyelperinquar in a way that is both easier to understand and far more complex than some of the tutors he’s had did, and he can’t help but share in the excitement that his grandfather’s aura exudes.

 _Tell me, then, atar, about the Ainur, who seem to bend these rules by will_, he remembers asking and seeing his grandfather’s expression twist into something akin distaste before sharpening into curiosity. 

 _My theory is that the Ainur do not bend them, but exist outside of them,_  He answers, pushing a stray lock of hair back. _That which is holy cannot come from the same place which holds them as such; they tell us they sang the vastness of Eä into being, therefore they are not from it and are not bound by its rules._ He finishes, watching the frown on Tyelperinquar’s face with almost narrowed eyes.

 _That—hm. I don’t understand. Should Eä not be bound to the same laws as their universe then, and therefore bind them as well? If it exists within it?, _There is confusion written across his face, but it is quickly replaced by preening satisfaction as Fëanáro’s mouth twists into a proud smile. Curiosity has always been his favourite trait in a person, Tyelperinquar found later in life, and was glad to find he had it in abundance.

 _You’d be right, inyo, if Eä did indeed exist as part of their universe. My theory, however, is that it does not, though Rúmil is ever eager to disagree. He thinks better of the Ainur than I do. _He scoffs, dismissive, and continues: _Think of the Song of Arda. Oiakúm_ _a is_ _the Void beyond this world, kept away by Ilurambar and accessed only by Ando Lómen and Ando Arin. But it is not the same Void that exists wherefrom the Ainur came, that the Timeless Halls inhabit._

 _You think Oiakúma is merely the Void beyond Arda, then, and not the Void beyond Eä,_ Tyelpe’s eyes are curious, and Fëanáro’s expression turns hesitant in a way it rarely does. 

 _Of that, I am not sure. And I can’t know for sure without reaching out to one of the Ainu_. A huff of outrage and a shake of his head, disapproval. _If Ilurambar stands between Arda and the rest of Eä or between Eä and an Outer Void, I cannot tell. What I do know for certain is that the Timeless Halls do not exist beyond the wall itself—not in Arda and not within Eä at all. And we do not exist as part of the same universe as them, though we might have been created within it._

 _It must have functioned as Ando Lómion and Arin do, then, but less permanent,_  He says, after careful consideration.  _The Song_ _of the Ainur must have created a doorway to Oiakúma and Eä, along with all that exists within it. The doorway could have been created within the universe in which the Timeless Halls reside, but it and its contents would not be part of it._ Tyelperinquar ponders, and his grandfather’s face twists in delight.

 _Precisely! Good thinking, inyo. And a what is a doorway if not essentially a gap? And a gap in a universe would mean an unfinished universe, which is why I think the Ainur cannot return from whence they came. To finish this world, they had to enter it and seal it before they could continue to create within it._ The praise has something warm and excited unfurling in Tyelperinquar’s chest and he feels himself smiling; as his only grandchild, Fëanáro’s favour is easily won, but this goes beyond it. His grandfather is the highest authority in many of the subjects he has chosen to follow, and to be able to hear his theories and contribute in some meaningful way, even if small, is something Tyelperinquar is sure many of his peers would kill to do.

 _Why do the Ainur not share this knowledge with us? Of Eä and beyond, of the natural forces and how they differ from the ones that bind them in the Timeless Halls? It seems madness to not share such a vast amount of information?_ He asks, and Tyelperinquar remembers trying not to laugh at the sheer amount of disdain on his grandfather’s face as the words rolled out his tongue.

 _Ha! The Ainur do not understand us and have no wish to do so—they are a subservient uncurious kind and expect us to be the same, to follow orders we never question and to leave the mysteries of this world as such,_ Fëanáro says, an air of deep annoyance about him that Tyelperinquar had known by then to be constant whenever the Ainur were involved. _But we are Ñoldo, Tyelperinquar, and not spiritless and pliant Vanyar._ Another trace of disdain in his words, shameless and undisguised, and his grandfather looks West as if directing his insult into Ingwë’s ears. _It is in our Nature, more than the others, though they are not uncurious, to question that which was not meant to be questioned. If you do not fight that, inyo, if you accept that nothing should simply be accepted without first being questioned—you will do great things._

 _Greater things than you?_ Tyelperinquar remembers asking as clear as day, with a teasing smile hanging from his lips, and his grandfather had laughed bright and loud.

 _You are my grandson, Tylperinquar: you will do things far greater than anything I could ever hope._ There was genuine delight in his voice and Tyelperinquar flushes to the tips of his ears.

 _Atar!_ He says, hiding his face behind his hands in gleeful embarrassment as his grandfather laughs and laughs.

 

* * *

 

Tyeperinquar awakens with the sound of Fëanáro’s booming laughter still ringing in his ears and warm glowing tears dripping down his eyes.

A sigh makes its way past his lips as he sits up and leans against the wall behind him, resting his head against the cold concrete to try and ground himself back into his miserable reality.

Eregion, he thinks. Ost-in-Edhil. Second Age, Ertuilë, a newly-born century. It's autumn, a particularly rainy one, and he's in his apartments, far away from the city centre proper.

He repeats his mantra once, twice and thrice before his mind collapses into itself, only leaving him time to draw a trembling breath before grief pierces through his heart, an arrow true to its target that forces him to bend forward with its strength, with the poison of sorrow spreading through his veins as if renewed by the vividness of his dream.

He _aches_ suddenly, misses his family with a burning passion, misses everything the First Age, the Doom and the Enemy took from him, misses feeling clean and light of conscience, Nargothrond and Finderáto's superfluous charm clashing light-heartedly against Tyelkormo's rough charisma and his father's brooding cynicism.

He misses his _father,_ his dad and his uncles and a time they were alive and bickering among themselves and their cousins, where his grandfather’s brightness was still warm and not scorching, where his grandmother cackled as she taught him and he failed to learn pottery art. Where his dad smiled softly at his father instead of with concern, where Finwë’s long hair dragging behind him as he yawned and hurried towards a meeting they were already late for.

He had loved Beleriand dearly, loves Eregion just as much and would lay his life for Ost-in-Edhil and its people, for all he built here, for his friendship with the Khazâd and even haughty Númenor, but.

To go back to a time where his family is happy and alive, free of dark influences, where his uncles' faces are never twisted in cruelty or sorrow, where his father’s heart is not shattered and cold— there is little he would not give for that.

“Tyelpe,” A voice calls out to him, otherworldly and worried, and he'd be disappointed in himself for letting someone get so close to him without noticing if he had the heart for anything but the agony of misery.

He does not move as Annatar inches closer, does not look up from the small and hypnotising puddle of pearl-rainbow tears that has formed atop his grey and lifeless sheets. There's an attempt of gathering his thoughts, the motions of trying to build up some sort of composure back up, but Tyelperinquar knows it to be useless, know that there's no mistaking or salvaging the situation; all there is to see has been seen and cannot be taken back. There's no dignity left for him to redeem here, if there ever was any left at all after Beleriand took its last breath before sinking into the Ocean.

Annatar's movements are deliberate in their slowness, and for a second it feels as if he's being approached as if he were a wounded animal on the verge of losing control and attacking, of tearing itself apart in a last ditch effort to save itself. It almost pulls a hysterical laugh from him—it wouldn't be the first time he's been treated as such, and he doubts it'd be the last.

But this is different and he knows it; this is a question, a tentative attempt at maintaining the boundaries they have constantly been treading over since meeting, and Tyelperinquar can't help but appreciate Annatar all the more for it. For giving him one more chance to pretend this never happened, one more chance to find his footing and maintaining the space between them wide and impersonal. 

He has had enough of pretending, however. He's had enough of trying to ignore his past for the sake and comfort of others, trying to tame his sorrow into something harmless and secret. 

He knows his aura is what must've alerted Annatar, knows it must've spiked and extended out of control with pain and violent grief as it attempted to encompass all around him, spread itself thin enough to spare him of the feelings within it, and once again he cannot thank his past self enough for having the foresight of choosing a home so isolated from the masses of the city. Any neighbours he might have had would surely have been awakened by his instability, jolted up and startled by a piercing arrow of foreign longing and he cannot fathom the repercussion of such a thing if the City Council had heard about it.

A Fëanorian in your city is ill luck enough, they'd think, and an unstable one is asking for disaster. No quality he could offer would have stopped them from trying to be rid of him.

He takes a deep breath and pulls his aura back to him, letting the bubbling of emotions settle into something less erratic inside of him before gently reaching out and giving Annatar the consent for which he'd been asking.

Annatar responds in kind, his own golden feelings intertwining with Tyelpe's silver gleaming chaos, soothing on a superficial level as he moves closer, sitting on the edge of his bed with careful movements.

Tyelperinquar takes a shallow breath and finally stretches his body, sitting up and looking at his companion with tired eyes.

Annatar is a holy image, dressed carelessly in his sleeping robes, the spun-gold curls of his long hair forming a burning halo around him that is accentuated by the silver moonlight that peeks through the curtains, enhancing the soft glow of the light brown of his skin. There are no shoes on his feet and he’s still wearing some of his jewellery, and Tyelperinquar realises he must have been on the process of undressing before hurrying to come to him.

Something tightens inside his chest at the thought, not at all unpleasant, but he puts that feeling aside.

“How cruel are the times where happy memories seem to be as painful as dark ones?” He asks instead, a frown marring his features, the faint tracks of star-bright tears still staining his cheeks. Something inside him feels cracked and wrong, like tender glass with jagged edges sits in the place where his heart once stood, just waiting to burst into innumerable pieces.

"Crueler still would be to be without them at all, don't you think?" Annatar asks, serene and concerned. The aureum depth of his aura is comforting, an embrace of the kind Tyelperinquar has not been in the receiving end of for more than centuries.

"To be rid of some of this grief, that is all I ask. Have I not been punished enough, do you think? Is my family not gone, beyond the bars of Mandos' gates, trapped until—what is it, the name your people so cruelly gave us, Arda Marred?—meets its end? Do I not pay with the wariness of my soul, with isolation and aid to this city? I know my hands are unclean, stained with the sacred and unhallowed blood alike, that my lips are unclean for speaking a language of murderers, but I had hoped–!" He stops himself mid-sentence, pressing his eyes shut again, desperate to quell the shifting of mourning into anger. Unstable, they had called his grandfather, with his wild hair and booming laughter, before darkness had befallen him at all. He wonders if it had been like this for him, at the end. If it had been like this for his uncles, for his father.

"You have done enough," The sternness of Annatar's voice is enough to startle him and he opens his eyes to meet determination galvanized into golden ones, ossified into his shining aura. "You helped build this city from the ground up, to heal your people of almost six centuries of war. You led your people into safety when others had failed, helped them build a home of which they could be proud, where they could live in peace. That is enough, that is far more than enough." His incredulity must be clear on his face, the way his heart rejects the words blatant on his aura, because Annatar continues, a new layer of conviction laid over his words: 

"Some of your people see me and mine as holy," He continues, and Tyelperinquar almost huffs in disbelief Annatar would think himself of anything other in the eyes of the Children. "Tell me then, how can your hands be unclean, if I hold them into mine?" There is a brand of fierceness to his actions that mixes strangely with the tenderness of his gesture, with the gentle way he takes hold of Tyelperinquar's hands, moving closer while his thumbs draw lazy patterns on the scars that litter his skin.

"Annatar," Tyelperinquar starts, but the words are caught in his throat, terrified to scare away the moment they're sharing, of breaking the intimacy of Annatar's actions. His heart is beating an irregular drum inside his ribs, torn between his twisting anguish and something new, something intense and kind.

"You are more than grief, Tyelpe. You are not a shadow of your family's mistakes, made to pay for their sins, and you know that." There is iron will in his voice, reflected into his aura, leaking into Tyelperinquar's own and helping shape his ache into something new. "I have chosen you because you alone amidst all these people, are worthy of what I have to share, even beyond the vast sum of your talents. How can you or the people of this city think of you as anything but blest and hallowed when Divinity has chosen you, in their and your eyes? How are your hands unclean when I have held them, when they have built such wonders and protected and healed so many?" He leans forward, slow and intense, and Tyelperinquar's breath stutters in his lungs, heart trembling in his chest.

Annatar's breath is warm, hot against his skin, the heat of a thousand forges and Tyelperinquar finds himself delighted to burned as their lips touch into something brief, but that sends jolts of electricity through his every pore, his veins and nerves.

"And if you think of your lips as unclean, then I have blessed them as well, and they are hallowed now—as they have always been in my eyes and before the Divine," He pulls back only enough for them to face without strain. "And those in this City who dare disagree are not worthy of your penance. You have done enough, Tyelperinquar. It's time to start living again."

The words hit him harder than even the kiss had and Tyelpe feels the air leave his body at once, a sigh of relief forced from him as a weight he had not realised he'd been holding for so long is—not removed, never removed, but lightened with the awareness that he has the power to hold it.

His lets himself fall forward, lets his forehead meet Annatar's and takes a deep breath, settling rapid-fire beat of his heart.

"You are holy not only in nature, but in kindness, it seems," He whispers, eyes closed against the warmth of Annatar's skin, of his soothing aura and steady breathing.

A huff of laughter against his lips and his heart stutters again.

"You are wrong to think this is extended to anyone but yourself. No, I am not kind—but you are, and it brings up in me qualities of which I never thought to be in possession," There is real sentiment in his voice, a touch of surprise and a great deal of honesty. "To bring out the kindness in Holiness: not a handful of your kind have managed to do so before, and those who did were made Saints for it."

"With the family name I carry, sainthood could only come at the cost of martyrdom," Tyelperinquar smiles, surprised to notice his mood feels significantly lighter.

"They are not worthy of martyrdom with how they have treated you," There is a note of anger in Annatar's voice, a layer of bitterness, and Tyelperinquar is almost ashamed at the burst of vindication inside his chest at the words, does quick work of swallowing it down and pretending it never happened.

"Those are harsh words from someone so revered amidst my peers!"

"And harsher words I shall utter still: I have no need or desire for the adulation of sycophants. Only fools revere blindly, accept at once and question nothing all the while ignoring brilliance that stands at their doorstep," It pulls a pearl of laughter from Tyelperinquar at last, and he pushes away from Annatar, mirth dripping from his tongue. He knows, at heart, that there is nothing of value in slandering peers for no reason, but it feels good to have someone come at his defence so willingly and enthusiastically.

"You know," He starts after his laughter dies down, staring at the brightness of Annatar's eyes. "In my dream, my grandfather said something similar."

"Oh?" The curiosity on his voice is unmasked and genuine, and Tyelpe feels warmth spread through his chest.

"It is something he told me when I was a child, really. That it is in accepting that nothing should be accepted without first being questioned that one achieves greatness."

"Ha! I see Fëanáro's cleverness is not exaggerated, though I have never doubted it with you as his kin." There's something slightly feral in Annatar's eyes for a second, but it is gone faster than Tyelperinquar can process, praise washing concern off his soul.

"Tread carefully when mentioning my family with such approval, I advise you. Clever and heroic and controversial they might be, but they are still the fiends and villains of History and to hear panegyrising from a holy voice is sure to send some to an early grave."

"Pointless advice and you know it," Annatar chuckles, light and delighted and Tyelpe smiles at the sight. "The day I refrain from saying what I believe will be a dark day indeed, my friend."

He acts before his mind catches up with his body, raising a hand to cup Annatar's cheek and feel the heat of his skin with his own, calloused palm against the softness of his face. He feels overwhelmed, suddenly, dizzy with affection and something deeper. 

Annatar came to his aid, stayed with him through his chaotic grief, comforted him in regards to his tainted spirit. Defended him from his own judgement and the judgement of others, when so few had done so before. 

Something ached inside his chest, wrestling to free itself and Tyelperinquar allows it to surface: "How precious you are to me." He says, guided by impulse but unrepentant. His own voice feels dazed to him, and Tyelperinquar can only assume his feelings are well reflected on his eyes, too. 

Annatar does not blush—it is not in his nature to do so and indeed, it is unclear as to whether it is even within the realm of possibilities for such a thing to happen—but something in him softens, turns warmer. His aura shines brighter, mingles with Tyelperinquar's with more passion, more intensity, laced with tenderness and reflecting affection.  

He takes Tyelperinquar's hand onto his own, the cold of his many rings a stark contrast to the ever-growing heat of his flesh, and takes it to his lips, placing a soft kiss against the roughness of his palm, before moving onto the tattoos on his pulse, the scarred surface of his knuckles. 

 "I assure you—not as precious as you are to me," There's an edge of rawness to his voice that sends pleasant shivers down the line of Tyelpe's spine, pulls a too harsh exhale from him, leave his mind scrambling to find steady ground and process his emotions in any sort of coherent way. "And I have now blessed thy hands twice over if you still insist on thinking of them as unclean." 

"You are generous with your blessings today, it seems," There's a roughness to his voice that Tyelperinquar had scarcely heard from himself before; his eyes are glued to the movement of Annatar's lips are they trace the skin of his knuckles with his words, eyes and aura ablaze with an ardour that shakes the very foundations of his mind, sets his own feelings alight. 

Annatar moves with predatory deliberateness, hand leaving behind a trail of shivers as it moves up his arm, up his shoulder, fingers rising to trace the sensitive shell of his ear as it pushes a stray lock of deep black hair behind it before finding its home on the curve of his neck. His thumb plays along the line of his jaw, blunt nails leaving ghost impressions of a scratch as they move and pulling a trembling gasp from Tyelperinquar with more ease than any before him. 

Part of him wants to move, wants to speed up events he's aching to see unfold, but he has long learned that there is little virtue in impatience with matters such as this, knows better than to leave his curiosity unsated when Annatar seems to be so eager to surprise him, when there is so much to gain from practising restraint. So he steels himself, watches with narrowed focus and a silver-gleam as a grin spreads across Annatar's full lips, pleased and approving, as if he'd felt the decision being made inside Tyelperinquar's frenzied mind. 

Annatar's sharp gaze never leaves him as he leans down to press his lips to Tyelperinquar's naked chest, above the place where his heart is beating a frantic song, speaking hushed words of reverence he can't quite make out but can feel against his aura, before raising his voice and declaring:

"I bless thy heart," He says, and Tyelperinquar's hand trembles as it moves to sit on the back of Annatar's neck, as it tangles itself with his silken-soft curls, as it meets the heat of the skin buried under its golden-bright volume. 

The ghost of his kiss moves up, its almost-touch as agonising as the edge of a sword dragging through his body. It stops as it reaches the midpoint of his neck and Annatar inhales deep against the skin there before pressing his lips to the column of Tyelperinquar's throat with added pressure, forcing a gasp from him.

"I bless thy voice," There's an added depth to his voice now, a new layer that gives it an otherworldly quality, that makes Tyelpe's lungs burn inside his chest. Annatar moves slower now but with no less intensity, leaving him in a state of borderline deliriousness that only dissipates with the feeling of controlled breathing against Tyelperinquar's lips, their breaths mixing at the same time their auras' electrified states become a half-tangible force around them. 

"And I bless twice over the mouth that speaks it," The impact the words have inside his heart don't match the almost inaudible tone with which they're spoken, but Tyelperinquar can't spare a moment to think before Annatar is moving in, doing away with all his thoughts with the meeting of their lips. 

It's nothing like the brief, tender kiss of before. 

Annatar kisses as if he's trying to rob Tyelperinquar of all his breath, to taste his aura and steal the light of his fëa from his body. His mouth is hot, hotter than any of his own kin would run, and Tyelpe welcomes his holy fire and burns with pleasure, the hand he has on his nape tightening its grip and pulling Annatar closer still, pressing their bodies together with a whimper. Briefly, he wonders about the sacrilege, the blasphemy of someone as iniquitous as him touching someone as divine as Annatar, but the thought vanishes as if ripped from his mind when sharp teeth find his lips and bite down and pull with teasing violence. 

There's a surge in the air, a crackling of power as his other hand finds Annatar's hip and solidifies its grip, and it leaves him light-headed, sucking the last of his breath from his lungs with uncaring craving. For a moment all Tyelperinquar feels is  _want_ and  _need_ , to the point where his mind feels separated from his body, his feelings overwhelming in their feverish violence, his aura chaotic around them. 

He can't  _breathe,_ Tyelperinquar realises. 

Pulling away from Annatar is the hardest thing he's done in the past millennia, but it must be done; there is no air left in his lungs, no reason left in his mind and as much as he wants to let it overcome him, it cannot stand. 

Annatar himself seems no more willing to part than he is, but goes with relative ease once he senses Tyelperinquar's predicament. His breath is smoke coming from his mouth once they split, laboured and deep, and his lips are swollen red, look as tender as Tyelpe's own feel. There's an almost feral look in his half-lidded eyes that would be considered unbecoming by society if it didn't fit him oh so well, and the urge to take and keep taking is near debilitating, but one that must be fought. 

They sit in silence for a while as Tyelperinquar regains his ability to breathe and settles his aura into something manageable, as smoke stops spilling from Annatar's lips and his eyes lose their animalistic edge, though they are no less intense as they stare him down with open interest and curiosity. 

"Did I burn you?" Annatar asks after a minute has passed, careful with his touch as it moves from his neck to the sensitive swell of his bottom lip. 

"No," Tyelperinquar answers, and it is true—there are many things he's feeling at the moment, but pain is not one of them. "I run hotter than most, too." 

Interest sparks in his eyes and Tyelperinquar can't help the breathless laughter that bubbles out of him at the sight, the possibilities that visibly surf through his mind at the thought. 

"Stay with me tonight," The words are out before he can think to process but Tyelperinquar finds he doesn't regret them; he rubs circles into the curve of Annatar's hip and watches as his eyes not so much widen as sharpen, his gaze turning analytical and calculating. It's a type of scrutiny he knows most of his kin are not able to withstand for too long, but there's something pleasant about having someone's attention like this, having focus narrowed on him and him alone, on his motives and his feelings and his actions. He finds it challenging, revigorating to know that someone sees him for more than what's on the surface when it's devoid of age-old prejudice, and the fact that it is Annatar looking at him in such a way only pleases him further. 

Golden eyes soften with surprising speed, however, whatever answer they found in Tyelperinquar's aura sufficient to leave him satisfied, and soon a flicker of mischief crosses his face. 

"I'm afraid I've run out of blessings," His lips twitch trying to hold in the chuckle Tyelpe sees in his eyes, and it makes his heart swell, push against his chest with ferocity and affection. 

"Curse me, then," He laughs, pushing Annatar's hair behind his ear, exposing the elegant curve of his neck and the tattoos that dive from it into his beneath his robes. "As long as you stay, I find I don't mind." 

"Silver in name and in tongue," A pearl of laughter, bright and amused, and Tyelperinquar would have been hypnotised if his heart and mind hadn't long been snatched away already. "I will stay, Tyelperinquar, and with no need for curses—I may have run out of blessings but I am filled with praise. I will make you feel holy yet." Another spark of mischief, stronger, and the urge to kiss him again cannot be held back, so Tyelperinquar makes no attempt to do so. 

There's no erasing the fact that he's a sinful man, he thinks. His hands are still dirty with civil blood, the blood of his kin, and the blood of his enemy. His voice was still the one that rose many to battle, into their deaths and Doom itself, lured innocents with promises of safety and protection he could never fulfil. Tyelperinquar has no illusions about himself or his actions, knows, in the end, that he did what had to be done and accepts his fëa will never be clean of it. 

But Annatar is hot against him, demanding and divine. Wants and accepts him for everything he's done and not in spite of it, trusts him and pushes him to trust himself again, too. It's a hard shift from how he's been treated so far, the distance he and others put between one another, the wariness and distrust. 

It's—dizzying, energizing and reinvigoraring all at once; he hadn't realised he'd been drowning alongside the ruins of Beleriand until he was given a breath of fresh air, and there's little in this world that would part him from it now. 

He _wants_ , ardently and fiercely, and for once in his life he's unwilling to deny himself the pleasure of having.

So Tyelperinquar leans in, tightens his hold on Annatar's hip, smiles into the kiss and lets himself feel holy. 

**Author's Note:**

> atta, atyo and atar: all words for "dad"; tyelpe uses atyo for curufin, atta for his other dad and atar for fëanor. the headcanon i vaguely imply here is that curufin is trans and gay  
> eä: the universe  
> inyo: grandson  
> ando lómen/arin: door of night/morning. the first is where they cast out morgoth at the end of the first age, but some accounts say they were created for the entrance/exit of the sun into arda and i thought that was neat
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for reading! please leave a comment!!!


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